Standing Still Facing You
by Wren Gebel
Summary: Hermione's admitted herself to a mental institute in the hopes of healing from the war as quickly as possible and moving on with her life. However, her plans are thwarted when she realizes Draco Malfoy is a patient at the same clinic. Her anger turns to confusion when she learns that he is just as broken by the war as she is and forgiving him might allow her to finally heal.
1. Like Home

**TW:** Character with an eating disorder

**AN: **Hello! It feels so weird to be posting again after so long! Of course, I've decided to start something new instead of finish my old work, sorry to dissapoint :) This story's been knocking around in my head for quite awhile. I kept telling myself I didn't have time to write it, yet here we are!

On a more serious note, this story does take place inside a mental hospital and features several mentally ill characters as well as discusses and portrays some things that might be upsetting to some readers. Each chapter will be given its own trigger warnings which will be listed at the beginning of the chapter as shown above. If you think I missed a warning that should be included let me know and I'll add it. Consequently, the story is rated M for sensitive subject matter as mentioned above, language, and sexual situations. If you're okay with all warnings I hope you enjoy the story and thank you for providing your feedback!

* * *

**Chapter one: Like Home**

She had been allowed to bring some things from home. They had been checked, of course, for spells, curses, and danger, but they had said she could bring what she needed to make the room feel like home.

_Like home,_ she thought as she unpacked pictures and set them with more care than necessary on the shelf by the window. The Weasley family waved to her from one, her parents stood still, holding each other and smiling from another.

_Like home._ It was an interesting concept to her. For eleven years she had called the modest townhouse she had lived in with her parents home. After that it had become Hogwarts. But during the war she had lost sight of what home was. For a bit, she supposed, she called it the tent she had shared with Harry and Ron. Sort of a mobile home, but a place to rest her head nonetheless. Afterwards she found herself wandering from home to home. A bed at Hogwarts again, a room in Grimmauld Place, a bit of floor at the Weasleys'. Now it was a small room at the Rosemary and Yarrow Mental Institute near the coast.

Sighing, she looked past the familiar faces on the shelf and out the window onto the institute's common grounds which were richly decorated with ripened fruit trees, hedges, and stoney walkways.

Rosemary and Yarrow's was one of the most highly regarded mental institutes in the wizarding UK and therefore was very exclusive and cost quite a pretty penny to get into. But not for a war hero. The Ministry had granted her hefty scholarships as compensation after the war which she had intended to use to attend a university and make something of herself.

_Had intended._ Those plans had been forgotten, though. Hermione sat down on the single bed wedged into the corner of her room. _It is quite a nice bed,_ she thought as she felt the high thread-count sheets and bouncy mattress.

"_Wars change people, Hermione," _Ginny had told her. "_There's no shame in that. Get the help that you need so you can move forward eventually, instead of being stuck."_

She clenched her teeth at the memory and glanced at a picture of Harry and Ginny smiling and waving their engagement rings at the camera. _But it's not fair,_ she nearly cried aloud. It seemed like everyone around her had been able to move on. Harry and Ginny were getting married in the spring, Ron had secured a job working in his brother's joke shop, Neville was nearly through his training to become a Herbology professor at Hogwarts, Luna was getting lost in places like Russia and Norway, and Hermione was here. Moving between therapy sessions and psych evaluations.

_Why me_, she wondered selfishly. Why was she the one out of everyone who needed extra help? Why was she the one still stuck in the war? She was the one who had worked hardest at Hogwarts. She was the one who had stayed up late studying. She was the one who had methodically planned out her life from getting good grades in school, earning the Prefect title, getting into any one of the top universities in the UK, to achieving her dream job, moving into a modest home, and constantly striving for the best; constantly moving. She was supposed to be the last person to end up somewhere like this. Why her?

A gentle knock on the door jerked Hermione out of her lamenting thoughts. The pleasant face of the young healer who had shown her to her room peaked around the door and asked her if she was ready to go to supper.

Hermione's stomach growled, but bile rose in her throat at the thought of eating dinner with dozens of strangers. Sure, everyone here was in a similar situation as her, sick of the mind in some way or another, but her ears still burned at the embarrassing thought that all these people would know she was sick.

"Do I have to?" she asked.

The healer gave her a pitying smile. "You have to go, but you don't have to eat if you don't want."

Hermione sighed internally, but followed the healer down the hall, through several doors, and down a set of stairs into the dining hall.

Like most places in the institute that Hermione had so far seen, the dining hall was exceptionally elegant and clearly designed with the institute's most elite patients in mind. Crystal chandeliers hung from several points on the ceiling, illuminating the hall in soft candlelight. The walls were embossed in beautiful rococo designs and the floors were shiny with fresh wax and richly dark with a deep wood.

Though most of the patients eating in the hall were dressed casually in simple jumpers and house shoes, Hermione couldn't help but feel considerably more out of place in such a wealthy environment.

The healer showed her how to que up for a plate and utensils and order between the evening's two options: rosemary chicken with roasted vegetables or the vegetarian pasta. Hermione kept her head down, hoping to conceal her face from anyone who might recognize her from the _Daily Prophet. _She was painfully aware that she may well be the only muggleborn is a sea of pretentious purebloods. The director of the mental health department at St. Mungo's had promised her that she would have complete protection from the healers and guards at Rosemary and Yarrow's from any injustices she faced from fellow patients and assured her that many patients wouldn't have half a mind to recognize her as a muggleborn as it was.

This thought brought her little comfort, however, as she found her way to an empty table near the back, hoping to avoid any sort of confrontation from anyone.

She promised herself, as she picked at her chicken, that she would do what it took to get better as quickly as possible so things could go back to normal and she could leave here.

She was interrupted, once again, from her thoughts at the sound of a struggle happening across the hall.

"Bullshit! Bullshit!" someone was yelling. The red face of a stocky young man came into view as he stood up from his seat and thrust his finger angrily at the plate of chicken and vegetables in front of him. Several healers and guards rushed toward the commotion, intent on de-escalating the situation before the furious patient could do the harm he was clearly capable of.

"No!" he yelled in response to something a healer had quietly said to him. "No! Because it's smaller! I want a bigger chicken! I want a bigger chicken!"

Attention in the hall had turned completely to the shouting man. People were whispering and giggling behind their sleeves and shirt collars.

Hermione used the distraction to slink away. Padding down the hallways back to where she remembered her room being, she was hit with a wave of nostalgia, of sneaking through the corridors of Hogwarts next to Harry and Ron, huddled together under the invisibility cloak or slinking between shadows and behind pillars.

Suddenly that nostalgia morphed into something else. The icy hands of fear gripped her chest. Her mind remained at Hogwarts, but the feeling changed. She was no longer sneaking giddily around with her friends, but running for her life and hiding from death eaters, heart pumping, hands sweating, knees shaking.

Her breathing quickened. She slumped against the nearest wall, feeling sick and faint. Her eyes closed and she tried to remind herself that it wasn't real.

"It's over," she whispered. "It's over."

But footsteps down the hall stopped her heart and turned her blood to ice. She knew she wasn't at Hogwarts during the war. She knew there were no death eaters stalking her in the halls, but her mind couldn't shake the thought that it might be. _What if it is? _Her mind hissed. _It's not impossible._

Her hands fumbled for her wand within her clothes, but her mind failed to recall that it was locked safely in a box in some highly restricted area of the institute.

The footsteps were getting closer and she had nothing to defend herself with. She looked wildly around the hall for a broom closet or room she could slink into, but there was nothing along this stretch of hallway. With a small cry, she braced herself against the wall and slumped down to her knees, covering her face with her arms and sobbing somewhat hysterically into her sleeves.

"Are you okay?" someone asked.

Hermione gulped in air, trying to control her crying, and looked up into the worried face of a very thin girl. In the dim candlelight she looked nearly like a skull floating ominously in the night.

The girl's words had wrenched Hermione out of her hysteria and she wiped the tears from her face and stood up in embarrassment.

"Yeah, I'm fine," she whispered. She wrapped her arms around herself and harshly pinched the skin near her armpits until she felt sick from the pain. _Stupid,_ she thought. _So stupid._

"You don't have to be embarrassed," the girl told her. "I've seen much worse breakdowns in here than that.

Hermione regarded the girl with blurry eyes. Her face was thin and sunken and her lips dry and cracked. Thin brown hair hung to her shoulders and around her face like a curtain.

"I saw you leave the dining hall during Jerimiah's typical freakout. He's an asshole, but his routine fits of anger in the hall are helpful." She laughed lightly. "You have to get rid of the food on your plate though next time," she added. "That way, when they check your plate they'll think you ate it."

Hermione frowned at the girl for a moment before the pieces clicked into place.

"Oh," she said. "I'm not… here for that…" The thought of talking so openly about her sickness, or anyone else's for that matter, made her flush deeply.

The girl gave a chuckle. "An eating disorder? Could have fooled me."

Hermione wrapped her arms more tightly around herself. She was aware that she had lost a considerable amount of weight in the years following the war, but she had never contributed that to any eating disorders she had been warned about in muggle school.

"You left all the food on your plate," the girl said. "You picked at it, but you didn't eat it. I know that trick."

"You misunderstand," Hermione said, starting to back her way down the hall. "I was just feeling unwell."

The girl gave a knowing smile. "Yeah, I know that one too."

When Hermione made it back to her room, she broke down in tears once more as the reality of her situation began to sink in. Flinging herself onto her bed, she cried for all sorts of selfish reasons, wishing that it were anyone but her sick in a bed in an institute. And then she cried because she realized how selfish she was being, but soon she felt like pitying herself again. _No one is crying for me,_ she told herself. _I might as well do it myself._

A knock on the door jolted her for a moment from her self-pitying. "Shower time," a voice said from outside.

But the command was soon forgotten as she buried her head back into her pillow and sobbed a bit more until the heaving from her cries and the stress of the day caught up with her and she collapsed unmoving.

There came another brisk knock at the door and it opened enough for a healer to stick her head in. "Shower, Miss Granger," she snipped. "I do not want to have to drag your naked arse to the shower, and trust me, neither do you." And she was gone with a snap.

Hermione lay there a moment longer, staring at the door where the healer had been. She must have looked a mess, lying haphazardly on the bed, eyes puffy and red, tears streaming down her face. Finally, and with great struggle, she pushed herself off the bed and grabbed her robe. She thought about the healer's words and turned pink. No. She did not want that.

* * *

"How are you adjusting?" Healer Loeta asked her.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably in the leather chair across from Healer Loeta's large ornate desk. "Fine," she said.

The healer smiled at her from across the desk and Hermione wondered if the witch was skilled in occlumens.

"Do you like the single room? Or do you wish you had been placed in a double?" she asked.

"I like the single," Hermione answered. "I like the privacy."

"Good," she smiled. "I'd like to talk about therapy sessions."

Hermione internally groaned. She hated the therapy, the talking. How could she articulate how the horror of the war still haunted her to this day? How could anyone besides the students who had fought alongside her know anything close to how she felt? _Whatever it takes,_ she reminded herself.

"I think it would be beneficial for you to maintain private sessions with me, let's say, starting with once a week. How does that sound?"

Hermione nodded. "That sounds good."

"But," she added and Hermione froze. "I would really like you to try some group therapy. I'm worried about you isolating yourself, Hermione."

"I don't know." Her arms wrapped themselves around her without thinking.

"I should remind you, a single room is a privilege. It can be taken away if I don't think you are taking the necessary strides towards recovery."

Hermione shifted uncomfortably again. She felt her fingers clamp down on the skin of her upper arms. "Okay," she finally said. "When?"

"There's a trauma group that meets once a week on Tuesdays. It's small and its members are generally soft spoken. I think you'd find it a good fit."

Hermione nodded, her stomach knotting at the thought of being forced to share her experiences and fears in front of a group of strangers.

Healer Loeta scribbled a note down on the parchment in front of her and then smiled back at Hermione. "One last thing," she said. "I'd like you to engage in one activity today. Then you're free to do as you wish until dinner time and curfew." She handed a small piece of paper to Hermione from across the desk. "Here's a list of the activities available today. When you attend one just get it stamped by the supervising healer and hand it back to me at our next session. Okay?" Her smile spread warmly across her face once more.

Hermione did not feel nearly as warm. Her fingers trembled as she held up the paper in front of her.

The slip Healer Loeta had given her contained several options for throughout the day activities, some of which were quite prestigious.

Golf was listed as available throughout the day even though the weather was turning quite crisp. Similarly, the art studio was said to be open for use all day with a patient-run class in the afternoon. There was a baking lesson at 9:00 and the swimming pool was open in the evening.

And on the list went, naming off various activities and classes available throughout the day. One event, however, caught Hermione's eye. A monthly book club, it said, was meeting today at 1:00 in the library.

Despite the pity and anger she had been feeling for herself, she felt a smile creep across her face at the words. _Library, _she thought to herself, and felt warm inside. _Like home._

Lunch was less lonely than she would have liked. One moment she was sitting by herself and the next she was sitting with the girl she had met in the halway the day before.

"Maybe I was wrong," she said simply as she watched Hermione bite into the chicken and rice she had chosen for lunch.

"I'm feeling better today," Hermione said as she watched the young woman push her own chicken and rice around with her fork. "You should try it," she offered. "You might like it."

The girl laughed. "I _know _I'll like it. That's part of the problem."

"Well you have to eat something, don't you? They won't let you leave until you do, right?"

Hermione watched the girl's face fall for the first time. She bowed her head towards her plate with a look of something like disgust on her face and visibly swallowed with difficulty.

"I'm Hermione," she said as a way to break whatever tension she had caused. It seemed to work.

"Mary," the girl said, smiling once again and taking her outstretched hand in a friendly handshake. "And I know. I've read a lot about you in the _Daily Prophet_."

Hermione felt her stomach twist once again. Recognition was the last thing she wanted. She glanced around the hall as if checking to see if anyone had overheard her introduce herself.

"You'll be fine," Mary said as if reading her mind. "Sure there's a fair share of pretentious, small-minded assholes around here, but most of them will be too self absorbed or too…" she discreetly twisted her finger near her temple. "...to even recognize who you are."

"That's good to hear," Hermione said, and she meant it.

Sighing, Mary decidedly picked up her fork and knife and set about methodically removing the rice from one bit of chicken before putting it in her mouth and chewing it for what Hermione thought was entirely too long.

She glanced down at her watch. 12:45 it read. "I should get going," she told Mary, "I'm attending the book club today in the library."

"I'll come!" Mary exclaimed, springing to her feet. A healer came up from behind her and pushed her back down into her seat.

"You'll finish that first," the healer said plainly.

"Or not," Mary grumbled, staring down at her plate.

The book club was uneventful if not even a bit boring. Hermione, of course, had not been able to read the book discussed in the meeting and so she was forced to sit sidelined for the discussion. Although, she found this rather relieving. It was nice, she thought, at the end when the club was handed their read for next time and she was able to hold a book in her hands once again. _LIke home._

She browsed the library for a perfect reading spot, finding one near a large window. She couldn't help but be awed once again by the lavish beauty of the institute's decor. The bookshelves were tall and sturdy, made of dark wood and intricately carved on the ends to display scenes, ribbon, and florals made entirely of the worked wood. Sparkling gold ladders leaned here and there against the shelves, but did not extend fully up the shelves, perhaps to keep patients from falling too far and injuring themselves.

As she read, she found herself becoming increasingly more and more distracted. The group therapy session she was to attend was tomorrow and she couldn't help but feel that things would go horribly.

Finally, dinner was called and she was wrenched from her thoughts for a while. Returning to her room alone, however, she stewed in them once more.

For the first time in a long time, it wasn't nightmares or irrational fears about death eaters lurking in the shadows that kept her up at night. It was a nagging feeling in her stomach and an unpleasant flutter in her chest.


	2. Group Therapy

**TW:** Character with an eating disorder, suicide attempt mention, depression mention.

**AN: **Welcome to chapter 2! Hope you enjoy! P.S. if anyone knows of any dramione fics with a similar setting let me know I'd love to read them!

**Chapter 2: Group therapy**

Hermione tossed and turned all night, dosing in and out of sleep. When morning came she was exhausted and irrationally angry at the knock at her door to wake her.

The group met in a private room on the second floor which looked like what someone might call a parlor. Expensive furniture lined walls covered in nineteenth century paintings which swirled around quite gracefully in their frames. A fireplace and several sconces along the walls kept the room pleasantly warm and lit.

Following the lead of a few others who had entered, Hermione took a seat in a round-backed chair made of a deep velvet green. A boy who looked as though he couldn't be more than seventeen took his place next to her in a leather armchair.

"Hi," he said to her. "You're new aren't you?"

"Yes," Hermione nodded. "How does- how does this work?" She gestured to the chairs which were being filled by chattering patients.

"Well, Healer Trinkens will probably have you introduce yourself to the group and then she'll ask if anyone has anything to share. We all take turns saying something and sometimes Healer Trinkens will comment on it or give us advice."

Hermione tried to smile at him, but she feared it was more of a grimace. "That sounds… nice," she stammered.

"Good morning!" the healer sang as she bounced into the room. _She's quite young, _Hermione thought. All attention turned to her as she took her spot next to the fire. "How is everyone this crisp autumn day?" Her smile was wide and infectious.

The group responded with a chorus of "good."

"We have a new member today!" Hermione felt eyes flood to her and she flushed in embarrassment, her own eyes trained on Healer Trinkens. "Would you introduce yourself?" The Healer asked her. "Give us your name and your favourite activity you've tried here."

Hermione's eyes glanced around the room at the various faces watching her with rapt attention. Some were smiling with kindness, others were simply watching. One was- _oh god. _She froze, eyes locked on a pair of narrowed eyes from across the room. _Out of all the institutes in the UK. Out of all the institutes in the world! Why this one?_

"I-" She couldn't tear hear eyes away and neither would he. Was he playing some game? Trying to embarrass her? "I think I'm in the wrong group."

"Nonsense, Hermione," the healer said. Hermione's face flushed even harder. "You're safe here. We're always happy to welcome new members."

_Not all of you,_ she thought. _Not him. Not when it's me._

"I'm Hermione," she said, giving in. "I like the book club." He snorted in disgust at this and rolled his eyes, finally breaking their staring contest.

"Good!" Healer Trinkens exclaimed. "Let's the rest of us introduce ourselves, shall we? Just your name is fine. I'll start. I'm Healer Trinkens."

The introductions passed to the Healer's left, first to a rather wiry-looking woman, then a man in his forties. Quickly, the floor was passed to him and Hermione was intrigued, if not a bit nervous about what he might say. But there was no spectacle. No snarky remark or insult. He simply introduced himself as "Draco" and then the introductions were passed to his left.

When everyone in the group had said their name the healer opened up the floor to anyone who wanted to share a story about their trauma or good or bad things that have happened to them within the past week.

Hermione tried to pay attention to the various stories each patient told, but the glaring eyes of Draco Malfoy sent chills down her spine. He'd kill her for sure. She thanked Merlin he didn't have his wand or she'd surely be lying dead right now. How was it possible that out of all the institutions, and out of all the therapy groups, she just happened to be placed in the one with _him._

"Hermione?" the Healer asked. "Would you like to share?"

"Um," she said, trying to think about anything besides Malfoy's eyes no doubt trying to strangle her with wandless magic. She couldn't be vulnerable in front of him. He was probably dying to hear about some tragedy from her past that he could use to torment her. "Well, once when I was in school, there was this awful boy who would harass me nearly every day." She chanced a glance at him and was surprised to find that he looked a bit taken aback. "One day, for no reason at all, he hexed my teeth so that they would grow until they reached the ground. I think about it every once in a while," she told the group. "And I'm embarrassed. But then I remind myself that he was just a spineless _cockroach_ who was probably just jealous that I did better than him in school."

"I'm glad you found a way to move passed something like that, Hermione," the healer said. "It's good to realize that the people who tormented us at a young age were probably acting out of their own insecurities and they hold no real power over us."

"I have one," Malfoy suddenly said. Hermione noticed with slight glee that he was looking rather pink around the edges.

"Go ahead, Draco," said Healer Trinkens.

"Mines from when I was in school, too. I was outside with some friends, when this girl who was always trying to get me in trouble came up and punched me in the face for no reason. She broke my nose. Then she called me names and spit in my face."

Hermione opened her mouth in anger to retort that that was _not_ at _all_ what happened, but stopped herself.

"That sounds awful, Draco," the healer said. "Does anyone have any advice for Draco? About how he could move passed something like this?"

"Oh, I've moved passed it," he said simply. "I just thought since we were sharing meaningless school dramas…"

Hermione felt a wave of heat rise to her face and she clenched her teeth in anger.

"Now, these aren't just school dramas," the healer said. "They mean different things to different people."

"I have one!" Hermione piqued up again. She was fuming. Her fingers clenched the seat of her chair to keep from shaking.

Healer Trinkens seemed to begin to catch on to the silent war happening between the two and she stopped Hermione before she could start. "Let's give someone else a turn."

At the end of the session Healer Trinkens dismissed everyone but Draco and Hermione, explaining that she'd like a word with them. They sat in their chairs across from one another, glowering until the last patient had left and it was just the three of them.

"What is this?" Healer Trinkens asked, gesturing between the two of them. "Some sort of school yard rivalry? Or ex-lovers, perhaps?"

They both barked out a sarcastic laugh.

"Please," Draco spat. "I'd never lower myself so far."

Hermione glowered at him, her fists shaking in anger.

"Whatever it is," the healer scolded, "I want it worked out or one of you is going to have to leave the group. We can't have a fight between you two every week."

Draco crossed his arms in defiance. "Well I'm not leaving," he said. "I was here first."

Hermione thought about telling Draco he could take his stupid trauma group and shove it, but Healer Loeta's words came to her mind. If she left the group it would likely be seen as her not taking the steps she needed to get better and her treasured single room could taken away. "Well I can't leave," she spat.

"Then figure something out," Healer Trinkens said. "Perhaps we should try a therapy session just for the two of you?"

"No!" they both exclaimed in panic.

"Then I trust you can both be civil enough to work things out on your own."

With that, the healer left the room and Draco and Hermione sat for a moment, glaring at each other in silence.

Draco broke the silence. "You always have to ruin things, don't you Granger? Things were going quite well before you showed up to piss on everything."

"Couldn't have been going that well, Malfoy. Did you claim insanity so they'd send you here instead of Azkaban? Or are you actually that nuts?"

"Watch yourself, Granger," he said cooly. "You're here too."

The lunch bell rang. Hermione stood up briskly, her hands still fisted at her sides.

"Leave me alone," she bit out.

"Ah, fuck off," Draco called after her as she stormed out the door.

At lunch it was Hermione who sought out Mary this time. She slammed her plate down on the table and sat with a huff, still fuming and shaken from the morning's events.

"Whoa!" Mary exclaimed. "What happened to you?"

Hermione bitterly ripped her bread roll in half and drowned it in gravy. "What do you know about Draco Malfoy?"

"Oh, Draco?" Mary asked, grinning. "He's kind of hot isn't he?"

Hermione snorted just as she glanced up to see the devil himself stride into the dining hall and pick up a plate. "That is _not _the first thing that comes to mind."

"I love that quiet brooding type," Mary said. "He's kind of shy. Keeps mostly to himself. Hangs out in the art studio a lot. I'm pretty sure he's here because he tried to off himself." Hermione blinked in surprise. "I know he's on food-watch like me, but not for the same reasons."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he doesn't have an eating disorder. He just… doesn't eat."

Hermione was taken aback at this. She looked back across the room just in time to see Malfoy walking to a mostly empty table. Perhaps it was her rage and bewilderment that had blinded her before, but now she could see that he did look rather thin and his eyes and cheeks were slightly sunken in.

"He's a right pratt is what he is," Hermione huffed. She explained to Mary how they knew each other and why it was so unfortunate that she just had to wind up in the same institute as the git.

"Maybe he's not so bad anymore," Mary offered. "He's never caused any problems with any of the other patients here."

"Ha," Hermione said flatly. "I doubt that very much. If he had his wand he'd hex me in a second."

Hermione made it a point the rest of the week to avoid the art studio at all costs lest she run into Draco. She focused her time on reading the book she had been given for book club, but soon she was nearly done with it and had nearly a month until the next meeting.

She felt depression creeping in on her one evening as she noticed that there was only about a chapter left of her book. It was a horrible sinking feeling, like boredom, anger, sadness, fatigue, and irritability all in one. The threat of being forcibly dragged to the showers was the only thing that kept her wrenching herself from her bed every evening. By the weekend she was barely getting out of bed at all, opting to stare blankly at the ceiling for hours on end.

Monday she saw Healer Loeta again. The healer wasn't happy to hear that Hermione had barely left her room the second half of the week, and was even more unhappy to hear that she had engaged in heated qualms with another patient during a therapy session.

"It seems unlike you, Hermione," she said.

Hermione's hands came up to hug her upper arms, already beginning to pinch on the sensitive skin. "I know. But you don't understand. I can't be in a group with him."

"What makes you say this?"

"He-" she struggled to find the words that would best reflect how she felt. "He _hates_ me!"

"Has he told you this?"

"Well…" she thought for a moment. With surprise she realized that Malfoy had never actually said the words "I hate you" to her before. "But he doesn't have to _say_ it. I know plenty well how he feels."

Healer Loeta was quiet for a moment. "What do you think Draco would say you thought about him?"

"He'd probably say _I_ hate _him_. He'd say I was jealous of him."

"Are you?" the healer asked.

Hermione narrowed her eyes in anger. "Absolutely not," she spat.

"And would he be wrong to assume you hate him?"

"I-" Again, Hermione found herself searching for the right words and stopping herself mid-sentence when she realized she hadn't thought about it that much before. She'd always sort of assumed she hated him back, but now that she thought about it she realized she might not hate him as much as she thought. "Maybe," she settled on, but then changed her mind. "I don't know. If he wasn't such a pratt… I mean- if he wasn't _so horrible _to me all the time…"

Again Healer Loeta was quiet. When Hermione looked up she found that the healer was watching her with curiosity. "Do you understand how we can falsely assume what other people feel about us? Humans are a lot more complicated than love and hate."

"Then why would he be so awful to me? He hates me because I'm a mudblood. It's as simple as that." The intense conversation was starting to wear her out and despite her anger she felt tears pricking the back of her eyes.

"Have you tried asking him?" the healer asked.

"I never want to _speak _to him," Hermione scoffed.

"Okay," Healer Loeta said softly. "I can't and won't force you to speak to someone you don't want to. But then we have the matter of the therapy group. I cannot force Draco to leave either. Especially not when he's peacefully engaged with the other members in the past. Are you going to leave the group?"

Hermione's leg bounced in frustration. Her fingers were pinching welts into her upper arms. "If I leave you'll take away my single room, won't you." It wasn't a question, and she didn't have to wait to hear the healer remind her about the room being a privilege to know that the answer was 'yes'. "Then I'm staying," she said. _And, if nothing else,_ she thought, _it'll just be to prove to Malfoy that he can't push me around._


	3. A Visitor

TW: Dissociation, torture mention

Hermione woke up early on Tuesday morning with a stomach ache. Even her body was rejecting the idea of sitting through another therapy session with Malfoy. She layed in bed for a long time, staring at the ceiling and clutching her stomach. Possible scenarios ran through her head, all of them ending with her and Draco engaging in a heated argument and her single room being revoked.

Groaning, she pushed herself from the warm comfort of her bed and got changed. She knew she shouldn't be so nervous about encountering Malfoy. She'd done it for seven years for Merlin's sake! But it still nearly made her teeth chatter.

She supposed it wasn't the prospect of seeing Malfoy that worried her so much. She knew she could handle her own against him when it came down to it. It was the threat of losing her privileges over a pointless argument, and more so the thought of never making any progress toward getting out of the institute and continuing her life the way she was meant to that really upset her.

When she found her seat once again in the room she noticed that attention seemed to be not just on her this time, but also on Draco. No one said anything, but Hermione could tell the other members were trying to figure out what had transpired between the two of them and when the next fight would break out.

Healer Trinkens entered, beaming like usual. She sat down in her chair and smiled at each of them in turn.

"Good morning!" she sang, taking out a notebook and quill from her bag. She scribbled something down and then spoke again. "I'd like to do something a little different today, is that okay?" Heads nodded. "I'm going to ask you a few questions, and if it applies to you you can raise your hand."

Hermione glanced around. Malfoy wasn't glowering at her this time. Maybe he does care about this, she thought.

"The first question is," said the Healer. "Who here likes chocolate?"

There were a couple of giggles throughout the room as people began to raise their hands. Everyone glanced around to see if their neighbor felt the same. There were even a few sarcastic gasps when someone would notice their peer without their hand raised.

"Okay, you can put them down," said Trinkens. "Now raise your hand if you're allergic to something."

Again, several people raised their hands and explained to them that they had allergies or were allergic to nuts or dogs.

Next the Healer told them to raise their hands if they missed someone from home. There was less chatter this time as the whole circle timidly raised their hands.

Hermione's throat tightened as she thought of her parents and Harry, Ron, and Ginny. She missed them badly. Her friends had promised her they would come visit, but she had yet to see them. She reminded herself that they were busy and making the trip to Rosemary and Yarrow's was a planned event that they just didn't have time for at the moment. Still, it hurt her to think about life continuing on as usual without her outside the institute's walls. Outside the world was moving, but here, she was standing still.

"Would anyone like to share who they are missing with the group?" The Healer asked.

Many people shared that they missed their parents or their friends. One person said they missed their owl and several heads nodded in agreement.

When everyone who wanted to had shared, the Healer moved on to the next question. "Raise your hand if you have trouble sleeping sometimes because of nightmares."

Hermione lifted her hand and surveyed the room as many others also raised theirs. Strangely, she felt slightly better knowing she wasn't the only one who would often be kept awake by memories of the past. She felt even better when she noticed that Malfoy was also raising his hand somewhat timidly. She wasn't sure what it was, but knowing that he too laid alone in cold sweat under the blanket of night in fear of the demons from his past gave her a funny feeling.

Maybe it was because for the first time she thought about the fact that they were both sitting in a therapy lesson for trauma and she wondered what had terrorized him. What had he endured that gripped his mind and refused to let go? It humanized him for her to realize he too felt fear. She had never really thought about Malfoy as a person before. Of course she knew he was a person, but now she wondered who exactly he was.

The questions Healer Trinkens asked them throughout the remainder of the session only dug her deeper down the rabbit hole that was the private and unknown moments of Draco Malfoy's life.

"Raise your hand if you've ever been made fun of."

And he did.

"Raise your hand if you think you're brave."

His hand was down.

"Raise your hand if there is something you regret."

His hand came up.

"Raise your hand if you know someone who loves you."

His hand hesitated for a moment, but it rose into the air.

At the end of the session Hermione realized the point.

"How many times was your hand the only one up?" Trinkens asked them. "None. How many times were you surprised to see that you weren't the only one who missed someone, or felt insecure, or had trouble sleeping?" She paused for her patients to think. "You are not alone," she said. "What you go through, your neighbor goes through. Look around at each other."

Hermione tried to avoid his gaze, but somehow her eyes landed on his anyway and he refused to look away. His head was tilted down, his eyes gazing across the room at her through his brow. She once again felt caught in his staring contest. But this time she didn't feel the same malice she had felt before. Something was different, and she felt it too.

"You are all different from each other. You all like different things and think different ways. But you are not alone."

…

The weather was turning crisp, but the temperature outside was still warm enough that patients could enjoy outdoor activities without having to bundle up in layers of robes.

Hermione was wearing the jumper Mrs. Weasley had knit her the Christmas before and enjoying the charm she had made it with which kept the wearer warm in all weather. She strolled along the grounds of Rosemary and Yarrow, trying to focus her mind on less painful and tiresome thoughts.

She followed a stoney path across plains of grass and through delightful gardens which were turning orange with the many pumpkins fruiting inside. A couple of patients had just finished weeding the garden the muggle way and left just as Hermione was approaching.

Knowing she was alone, she knelt down next to a particularly large pumpkin and gave it a solid pat to hear the hollow inside.

"You've grown really well," she whispered to the squash. "They've taken good care of you here, haven't they?" Her fingers traced the grooves along its bulging body, brushing away some of the dirt that had gotten stuck around the stem. "I used to carve pumpkins like you when I was little. I miss it." She sighed. "Maybe I can do that here. Or turn you into a pie. Sorry," she told it with a chuckle. "I suppose it's rude of me to talk about turning you into a pie right in front of your face."

"Blimey," came a familiar voice from behind. "I thought she came here to help herself. Been here a month and they've got her talking to pumpkins!"

"Ron!"

Hermione stood and turned just in time to see Ginny slap her brother on the arm and scold him in a very Mrs. Weasley-like fashion.

Hermione couldn't help the grin that spread across her face as she watched the two bicker in real life before her.

She cut off their arguing with a hug.

"You came!" she exclaimed. "I missed you!"

"Of course we came, Hermione," Ginny said. "We told you we would."

"Where's Harry?" Hermione asked, noticing that the black-haired boy which was normally an extension of one or either of them was nowhere to be seen.

"He couldn't get the day off," Ron explained. "He's cramming for his Auror trials next month."

"Harry's studying!" Hermione laughed. "I don't think in all my years at Hogwarts I ever saw either of you study without me babysitting you!"

"He's been pretty serious about it," Ginny said. "He talks all the time about how much he loves training."

Hermione tried not to show her confusion at this outwardly, but she couldn't help the twitch in her brow. How long had she been at the institute? Harry had started Auror training well before she had admitted herself, she was sure of it. And yet she couldn't recall one time he had spoken about it. Her mind began to race. Had she been worse than she realized? Had her friends been keeping things from her? Perhaps to not upset her or make her feel jealous that everyone else was moving on except for her?

She tried to push these thoughts to the side and instead focus on the fact that they had finally come to visit her. She felt warm in their presence, like stepping inside a warm home after a chilly day.

"You should show us around," Ron said, perhaps noticing the shift in emotion on her face. "It's fancy here. Like rich-pureblood fancy. It must be nice."

"It is really fancy here," she confirmed, motioning for them to follow her as she continued her walk through the gardens. "There's gold on the ceilings and expensive paintings on the walls. They even have fancy food!" she laughed. "And plenty of rich fancy purebloods to eat it all."

"No one's been rude to you, have they?" Ginny asked. "I mean, because, you're, you know…"

"No," she said. "I don't think anyone has really noticed." She tried to remember if anyone had so much as glanced at her too long for being muggleborn and her mind came to Malfoy. She fought with herself on whether or not to tell Ginny and Ron that Malfoy was also a patient at the institute. In a way she wanted to hear someone agree with her that Malfoy was a right pratt. But another part of her felt guilty at the thought of mentioning it. Surly it would embarrass him to no end for his old school rivals to find out he'd never been doing as well as jhe wanted everyone to believe. But did she really care if she embarrassed him? It would only be what he deserves, she thought, for all the times he had embarrassed her.

"No, blood status doesn't seem to be the thing on anyone's mind here." It was quiet for a moment as they walked. Freshly fallen leaves crunched beneath their feet and chirping birds flew overhead. In the distance a patient was yelling loudly, something about a pineapple Hermione thought. Noises like that had faded into background noise for her. A patient's episode had become nothing more than the buzzing of a fly: annoying, but ignorable.

When Hermione had finished showing Ginny and Ron the grounds, she took them inside to view the library and her own room. Before she knew it, they were waving goodbye as they passed through security at the front of the institute.

She felt empty as she watched them leave. A wave of melancholy flooded over her as the doors closed and she turned to walk down the hall. She wasn't sure where she would go now that her friends had left and there was still an hour until dinner.

Her feet all but literally dragged along the marbled floors. Tears began to pool in her eyes and she scoffed at their ridiculousness. There's no reason to cry, she thought, trying to blink them away without alerting anyone else that she was upset. Her lips pressed together tightly and her fingers found the soft part of her upper arm.

She decided to walk to the pool. She hadn't been yet and she liked the thought of hearing and smelling the water. It sounded calm. Peaceful.

She didn't intend on actually swimming so she went straight there without grabbing a suit. The pool room was lit a strange green color, the water reflecting the lime color of the greenhouse-like ceiling. Like all indoor pools she had been to, the voices and laughter of patients enjoying a heavily guarded pool echoed around the room so that it all blended together in one big mess of noise.

Despite the air being perfectly breathable, Hermione suddenly felt as though her head was underwater. She sucked in what air she could, but she was suffocating. The room was wrong. It was too green and suddenly felt too cold. She stumbled to sit down, but when her hand met the cool tile she gasped and her vision became fuzzy.

Someone was being tortured. They were screaming. It echoed around the room at a volume so loud it hurt her ears. She brought her hands up to cover them, but it wasn't enough.

Bellatrix laughed. It blended with the screaming and wormed its way through her fingers. She began to cry, tears flowing out like rivers. Bellatrix grabbed her wrist and pulled it away from her ear.

Hermione could already feel the sharp sting of the knife against her arm. No, she thought, not again. She fought against the hand around her arm and tried to stand up. A deatheater grabbed her other wrist and held it against the cold floor.

Hermione screamed and thrashed about. "No!" she cried. Her voice went from shrill to raw and angry with each shout until she was practically growling. "Stop! No!"

Suddenly they stabbed her. She felt the sharp end of the knife enter her thigh. Crying out with surprise, she tried to look down at what she was sure would be her thigh covered in blood. Her vision was clouded, but there was no red blooming from where the knife had offended her.

"What?" she whispered to herself in confusion. Her eyelids drooped, feeling suddenly heavy and she suddenly too weak to keep them open. Her head lolled back and she resigned her efforts in fighting against her attackers. In fact, she was beginning to feel as peaceful as she had hoped the sound of the water would make her feel.

She felt her body floating. She was on a floaty in the pool. It was warm and she could finally fall asleep.

…

It was dark when Hermion woke. She instinctively knew she was in her room at the institute, but she could barely see more than silloughetts of the nearby furniture. She groaned. Her head hurt and her cheeks were stinging. Her hand lifted to gently feel her cheek for the source of the pain when it met a blockage.

I thick band had been secured around her wrist which was connected to the frame of the bed, meaning her arm could only be lifted an inch or so. She tried her other arm and found that it too was restrained.

Anger. That was the first emotion that bubbled to the surface. It came hot, like boiling water, from behind her eyes. She bucked against the straps, twisting her wrists so that they too burned.

An angry growl rolled out of her chest. "Help!" she yelled for whoever might hear her. "Someone! Please! Help me!" She cried loudly, warm, angry tears streaming down her face and causing her cheeks to sting like angry bees.

She heard her own shouts echo around the room. Bellatrix's hot breath was on her face and her knife was glinting in the moonlight.

"Get off!" Hermione yelled, throwing her body upward as much as she could. She rolled to the side, trying to escape from the torture she knew would come.

She braced herself for the curse and felt the crusiatus roll through her like a fever. Another throaty yell escaped her lips as she writhed against her bonds.

Mudblood, mudblood, mudblood. Whispered voices echoed in her ears, getting loader and closer, drowning out her own cries.

With a snap, the door clicked open and witht the sound of a sucking drain, the voices left and the room was deafiningly silent.

Her chest heaved, tears still flowing down her stinging cheeks. She turned her head to the door as someone snuck inside and shut it quietly behind them. Fear once again gripped her lungs, making it hard to breath. She gasped in ragged breaths for air.

"Granger," the figure said. "Shut the fuck up."

"Help," she whimpered and pulled again at the straps around her as she choked on a cry.

"Shut up," it scolded her. It moved closer to her bed and the moonlight from the window finally caught the sharp features of its face.

"Malfoy?" she croaked.

"Bloody hell, Granger," he hissed. "Would you shut the fuck up? You're practically begging them to put you in solitary."

"Please," she whispered to him. "Let me out."

He seemed to hesitate. He looked like a ghost, illuminated only by the pale moonlight, staring down at her with piercing eyes.

For a moment she thought that was all he was going to do: watch her struggle, helpless against her bonds for his own pleasure at her torment. But then he knelt down beside her bed. With the quiet clinking of metal, he undid the buckle on the cuff and freed her hand.

"Fuck, Granger," he whispered as he leaned over to undo her other wrist. "What the hell did you do?"

"I just wanted to look at the water," she cried softly.

"The pool?" He stood up as she sat up and rubbed her wrists. "Yeah, that's…" He trailed off, but Hermione thought he must have understood what he meant.

Her fingers ghosted over her cheeks and she hissed at the sting she felt at her own slight touch. "What happened to my face?" she whispered more to herself than to Malfoy.

"It looks like you scratched the hell out of it."

"What?" She tried to remember what had happened at the pool, but it was all a blur. The real memories mixed with her imagined ones and she found it hard to tell when one ended and the other began.

"Listen to me, Granger," Malfoy said, his voice suddenly threatening. "You don't tell anyone I was here. If I find out you told a single fucking soul, I will make your life here hell. Understand?"

The quaint amount of softness she had begun to feel for him for helping her disappeared. "And tell me, Malfoy," she was feeling braver, more like herself. "How would that be different from how you make it now?"

The muscles in his face rolled as he clenched his jaw. "You don't want to find out," he spat. An just like that, he was gone.

Hermione fell back on the bed and cursed Malfoy's name. She wanted to cry again, but the exhaustion she felt in every bit of her won over and before she could question what had happened, how Malfoy had heard her, or why he had bothered to care enough to help, she was asleep.

AN:Let me first say that even after all these years I cannot believe the support I have gotten from so many of you on this site. I still can't believe that it's been almost ten years since I posted my first story "Searching" here and it continues to get overwhelming positive feedback from my readers. I hardly ever check this site any more since I've graduated college, started working full-time, and haven't really found the time to sit down and write anymore. So on the rare occasion that I check on my stories here and find thousands of lovely people cheering me on, I am overwhelmed, simply put. While I know it seems like I never post, I know I will always find something to write thanks to the amazing support from readers like you. I can't thank you all enough for the wonderful past years.

Anyway, moving on to something I want to point out about the chapter, I am aware that there is probably a spell that could be used to sedate a patient inside of giving them a shot, I just thought it worked better for the scene :)

Again, thank you so much for your continued support. I can't promise when or what I will update again, but know that your comments truly help me!


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